


Make-Up

by Austinonymous



Series: To The East (Main Series & One-Shots) [2]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Lots of Angst, M/M, Marc Anciel Isn't His Original Name, Name Changes, Name-Calling, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, villain AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 20:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Austinonymous/pseuds/Austinonymous
Summary: Marc hadn't meant to make a statement when he had first worn make-up.All he knew is he needed to make sure no one saw what was underneath.Not unless he wanted to keep from being hurt even more.(Set before To The East)





	Make-Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit dark guys- there will be plenty of mentions of abuse and lots of name-calling and bullying. Marc didn't have a pretty childhood in this AU; I rated the fic M just in case, though I tried to keep from being too explicit and keep it more implied or abstract.

Marc hadn’t meant to make a statement when he had first worn make-up.

That’s not to say that he didn’t understand why his fellow students found him such a nice target. Marc’s figure was naturally slender and girlish, as his older brother would say. Marc understood that; he had been taught to expect cat-calls and comments at some point, should he decide to dress or look a certain way.

His brother wasn’t lying when people would peg him for a girl, or some f… some guy thinking he was one. His smooth and silky black hair had only added to the impression, especially since Marc had always worn it long and in a messy bun. He was often called a ‘little lady’, mostly by well-meaning accident, because of this as he grew up.

Marc hadn’t meant to make a statement. Or maybe his brother had. People just were wrong about which one he was making.

When he was in elementary school, Marc had a friend. They had met when she had come up to him and declared that if he felt like a girl then she didn’t mind it. Marc had politely thanked her and just said he liked wearing the make-up. He was- what was the word his brother had used?  Ah, effeminate. That’s what he was.

That’s all? She had asked him that question doubtfully, unsure despite his insistence.

That’s all. Marc had replied with false confidence. He wasn’t in the wrong body, but he didn’t dare elaborate beyond that.

Marinette had taken that answer for what it was worth and started asking him what he enjoyed doing.

His parents had taken the make-up in stride; one could even argue that they didn’t give a damn. Marc wasn’t sure which it was to this day. A case of more serious neglect or simply being busy. All these years later and Marc couldn’t tell if he still wore rose-tinted glasses of his parents.

People didn’t bully him for being quirkless at that point in time. It took a bit for it to happen. The boys at first jeered and thought that some girlish f- girlish fop wasn’t worth their time. They had new cool quirks to try out! The girls too, thought this, though they rarely confronted him directly even when they did start bullying him.

That had changed one morning when he was older, maybe third or fourth grade. Marc had gotten in a fight with his brother and in the rush to get ready for school ended up putting on more make-up than usual. That drew new sneers and increased taunts and laughter. Then at recess, when Marc had decided to go to the corner of the yard away from the crowd for some peace, he was followed.

At first, it was just taunting and pinches, startling him by using their quirks too close to him. Marc knew he had felt the familiar licks of flames on his arm, making him freeze in terror. That drew more laughs and jeers. One could excuse their behavior in a way; they were only children and did not understand exactly what they were doing to Marc.

Then suddenly, the ground rumbled as Epicenter stepped onto the field, livid. The kids around him had backed up quickly, offering the middle-schooler the first hit on the little fa-freak. Mess up that garish make-up Marc had on, smudge it up nicely.

Epicenter had laughed, and Marc knew what was coming, looking down. It was always like this. The punch laid him out on the ground, some blood from his nose landing on the grass and forming a nice mark on his make-up, something Marc couldn’t dare wipe away with destroying his careful work.

The boys had laughed at first and had tried to high-five the older boy, happy that the middle-schooler had found their new activity fun.

The boys soon were crying as Epicenter broke their bones and made them regret ever laying so much of a hand on Marc. It was fast, it was brutal, it was one-sided; exactly what the older middle-schooler was known for. Marc’s classmates hard really been quite stupid to not run.

People once more didn’t bully him for being quirkless at the time. Not when his older brother was the most notorious bully in the entire schoolyard.

When they were home, it started again. “I’m surprised you don’t put on a dress you weak-ass fucking f….” Basil’s words fizzled out as Marc kept his head ducked down, drawing in on himself. The older boy sighed and with a growl brought the candle closer, smiling with satisfaction as Marc clenched his hand, betraying some response. “You should’ve known this would happen Pieter. Toughen the fuck up, you sniveling baby.”

His older brother wouldn’t be there to save him next time, he said. And if he didn’t want his arm burned, he needed to be able to stand up to the jackass with the flame quirk.

Marc needed to use make-up on his arm sometimes after that day. He ran out of hoodies after the sleeves were burned.

He dealt with this for a while- however, there would come a time when people stopped bullying him for being quirkless. It was when he was in middle school, his brother now in high school.

The incident hadn’t happened when he was at school this time though.

His parents were home early for once and were arguing quite loudly. Marc wasn’t sure what it was about exactly, but he was certain that one of them had lost their jobs. He would later learn that it was both of them that had.

Basil had been quite stressed out over the whole situation; he was pacing the room he still shared with Marc angrily, running his hand through his hair nervously. Once he had graduated from high school and was living on his one, Marc could understand why- suddenly losing your main sources of income was highly stressful, even more so for young kids and teens with not a firm grasp on reality and that weren't fully mature.

Marc was soon dragged in by his collar and thrown onto the bed, a fist punching his face. If there was one thing that an older Marc was glad about was that his brother’s homophobia at the very least kept it to hits only. But unlike the one or two that usually came, the occasional kick to his ribs, well, this time Basil didn’t stop.

Pieter, defend yourself!

Pieter, you useless sack of shit, fight for once!

Pieter, you better give me a fucking fight!

Marc had gritted his teeth and finally, screamed with tears in his eyes, “If you want a fight so much, go hurt someone else! Try and kill someone else for once!”

His hand had moved on its own like he was throwing something.  It was instinctual, it was self-defense, it was out of his control.

Basil had stilled once the black-and-white-paper-plane had hit him and dissolved. He seemed to be processing what Marc had screamed, as Marc shivered and sobbed underneath his much larger and muscular frame. He gave his younger brother a wicked grin and ruffled his hair.

“Sure thing kiddo! Just stay here you fucking useless bitch, I’ve decided to be merciful for once.” Epicenter stood up and stretched, walking out the door as he grabbed the machete he kept displayed proudly on his desk. It was a wicked thing, with a blade sharp enough to slice through anything. Marc had dubbed it the Tank-Top Killer after he had to throw out all of his tank-tops because of it.

The heroes came by relatively soon. Marc had not left his room- he could see some blood just outside his door and couldn’t stomach to see what was out there should he decide to walk out. The heroes had been horrified about what had happened to him, even if Marc knew it was his fault. Epicenter hadn’t stopped fighting, not after the first five blocks were rubble, not after the heroes arrived, not after two were wounded and another three blocks destroyed.

To this day, most people believed Reverser was unable to make his changes to people permanent. Even his boyfriend was unable to figure out why he refused to; Evillustrator was at least kind enough to not pry. Hawk-Moth, on the other hand, had been quite amused by what he’d forced out when he'd first recruited him.

When Marc was put into the foster system since all his relatives were no longer able to take care of him, Marc asked to change his name legally. He got to choose his name to start over again with; he thought it was fitting in a way. Marc Anciel- a name that was a play on the part of himself he’d decided to accept. Maybe he was a f… a fa… that word… but he couldn’t hide his attraction to boys anymore. Nor did he need to.

He didn’t need to wear his make-up anymore.

Then it was the first day of high school, a new school, with a quirk at his side and new friends to be made (he had heard Marinette was going to this school too). He pulled on his tie-dye shirt, painted his nails and shouldered his backpack confidently. He looked in the mirror- and Marc faltered.

The bruises were gone and the scar from knife and flame alike were covered by his hoodie but… this wasn’t him. Maybe the boy under the make-up was what he had been born as, but what he knew, what he was comfortable with…

But this time, Marc wouldn’t be wearing it because he was being forced to learn. Because he had no choice. Marc was able to choose for himself this time, and sure, maybe he’d messed everything up so far, but… he could do this right? This one little thing.

He’d claw his way along no matter what. He’d live with his scars and habits, his make-up, if only to stick it to that bastard Epicenter.

Marc sat down and hummed, genuinely happy for once as he pulled out his brushes and turned on the mirror’s light to get started.


End file.
